


Continuity

by elephantfootprints



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, M/M, Not angsty, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 14:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elephantfootprints/pseuds/elephantfootprints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the apocalypse comes, it’s fairly unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Continuity

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the lovely [Holesinthesky](http://theresholesinthesky.tumblr.com/).

When the apocalypse comes, it’s fairly unexpected. One day, it’s business as normal, the next everything is on fire, people are dying left right and centre, some heroically, some tragically, but most go unnoticed. The world is falling before their very eyes, so everyone clings to one another, make desperate confessions of love. John and Sherlock are not so different from the general populace in this, though they are far more understated than others. John simply turns to Sherlock, face fond but serious and says,

“It’s quite likely we’re going to die.”

“From my observations, it does seem our survival rate has decreased dramatically, but without more information about what has caused this extreme destruction over the last few days, it’s impossible to determine if or when it will end, and indeed if the level of damage will remain consistent. Statistically, the likelihood of our imminent death cannot be calculated.” Sherlock looks at John then, scrutinising him. “I assume you wish to make some sort of proclamation, nonetheless.”

John laughs. “If it’s not too inconvenient.”

“Go ahead,” Sherlock says magnanimously. 

“Right,” John squares himself. “Sherlock, you’re my best friend and I love you.”

Sherlock nods, trying to look dispassionate, even annoyed, but there is a pleased curve in his lips he cannot hide. “I suppose now I need to return the sentiment.”

John rolls his eyes, walks over to Sherlock, punches him in the arm, and mutters, “Git,” before pulling him into a kiss. When they part for breath, Sherlock asks, “I suppose you want us to have sex now.”

“If you don’t have anything else on,” John deadpans.

“My schedule has opened right up,” Sherlock says. “Quite unexpectedly a few days ago when the world ended. We might as well have sex, nothing else to keep us occupied, really.”

“True. It’s not like we can watch telly,” John says, gesturing around the tiny, filthy, shelter they have managed to find. Sherlock starts to laughs and John joins him. They giggle as they undress each other, chuckle right through their orgasms, and are still smiling as they huddle together for warmth when the fiery rain stops and the deathly cold night begins.

Their shelter is nearly destroyed the next morning, and it appears that Sherlock is as susceptible as the rest of the world to the sentimentality that comes from watching the world exploding a few feet from you. Sherlock grips John in his arms and tells him frantically, “You’re my best friend too. And I love you. You know this, yes?”

John simply smiles, still holding on to his solider calm, strokes down Sherlock’s bare, sweaty back, says, “I’m not completely unobservant, you know.” and draws Sherlock back down on the ground for some urgent, but tender lovemaking.

*

The apocalypse ends as suddenly, abruptly and inexplicably as it started. In total, it only lasted nine days, but the damage caused is extensive, possible irreparable. There’s no electricity, the phone lines are ruined, every building is destroyed, or left dangerously unstable. Survival will prove difficult in the next few months, but not impossible. Everyone must pull their weight, they must all work together, communal goals, the strong helping the weak, united under a common and desperate goal. Sherlock finds it all hideously dull. Which he keeps John and anyone in earshot informed of.

“Dull!” he proclaims when John arranges for them to help collect wood for fires.

“Boring!” he declares when John has them scout for food.

“Tedious!” he complains when John makes him dig for water.

The only work he finds interesting is John’s medical assistance, but John shoos him away after he makes a fifth person cry.

Sherlock wanders the destroyed streets of London, bemoaning that he has been doomed to a long, drawn out existence. Even sex doesn’t seem quite as distracting when you are no longer scared that your next breath may well be your last, and the person with you is your only link to life, and you aren’t consumed with that strange need to make every kiss, every thrust and every touch count, make them express your desire to stay alive, your regrets that your life was not lived to the fullest, trying frantically to let the person you are sating with yourself know that they were the only worthwhile part of your previous life, before then you were only half-alive and truly, truly, losing them is the greatest tragedy you can imagine. It was still good, Sherlock wasn’t complaining, but there certainly was something to be said for apocalypse sex.

Turning down a once-familiar street, though with the all the landmarks and signs consumed Sherlock isn’t positive he knows which, a wonderful sight greets him. A woman stood over a man’s body, systematically throwing bricks onto it and the surrounds. It takes but a moment for Sherlock to realise what is happening, and his whole body hums with excitement. He runs at her and grasps her shoulders, stopping her from throwing a brick and spins her to face him.

“You’re committing a murder!” Sherlock says gleefully. “And you’re trying to cover it up!”

“I-” the woman starts to say, eyes widening in fear, brick still in her hand, but Sherlock stops her. He rattles off deductions, the words flowing rapidly, barely comprehensible. The woman must understand him though, understand that she has been caught, as she seems torn between trying to run from Sherlock and considering offing him as well, but to her surprise, he twirls gleefully and kisses her on the cheek before running off, muttering to himself enthusiastically. 

*

Sherlock shirks all of the jobs John has found for them to do, but as he is brimming over with manic energy, looking happier than John had seen him since the apocalypse and not sitting around moping and upsetting other survivors, John doesn’t nag him. He is gone for most of the day, but always returns at night, grumbling over John’s efforts to feed him, eyes glinting with excitement, and he becomes rather affectionate and amorous. John is intrigued by this change in Sherlock, but decides not to tempt fate by asking what has happened.

Nearly three weeks after Sherlock gave up on assisting John and the other survivors, John is surprised to find himself kidnapped. There’s no black car, there’s no cars left, and the young woman who collects him is a far cry from polished, clothes torn, no make-up, although she has apparently managed to find a hairbrush. Nonetheless, John knows this is the work of Mycroft and rolls his eyes before following the woman curiously. 

To his utter surprise and delight, she leads him to a semi-permanent shelter with none other than Mrs Hudson standing at the opening, smiling widely, and alive. John races over to her, frantically checks her for injury and then hugs her tightly when he finds she is fine. 

“Oh, John,” Mrs Hudson says tearily. John is too choked up to respond and simply hugs her again. When it becomes clear that John is about to start sobbing, Mrs Hudson pushes him away, saying, “Come dear, see what Sherlock’s done.”

This sobers John slightly, but he isn’t too worried. Mrs Hudson is clearly thrilled with Sherlock, so it can’t be anything too terrible.

When John enters the shelter he is greeted by a Sherlock grinning manically, a Mycroft looking smug, and a Lestrade smiling broadly, and looking equally alive as Mrs Hudson had. John turns straight for him, embracing him tightly, unable to stop smiling and trying desperately not to cry.

“Alright, then?” John asks, beaming.

“Fine,” Lestrade says. “Little worse for the wear, but considering what we’ve just been through, can’t really complain.”

“Do you know who else survived?” John asks. “I’ve been working with Molly, and some people from the clinic, but no one you would know.”

“Sally made it,” Lestrade says. “Haven’t heard about Anderson or Dimmock, Gregson’s dead, I heard rumours about others from the station, but no one really knows." 

“And your missus?” John asks. Lestrade looks away with a shrug.

“Don’t know,” he says tightly. “She was in Paris before all this. Haven’t heard from her in a long while.”

“Enough of that,” Sherlock says impatiently. “Look around, John!”

Sherlock is brimming over with excitement and John casts his gaze over the shelter. It’s large, larger than most he’s seen and more complex, with sections partly separated off. There’s even rough approximations of furniture. None of this explains why Sherlock is looking so pleased with himself, until John realises something. There’s a vague couch, two could-be armchairs, a small fire pit with a rough chimney, there’s something John supposes could be a coffee table, and another similar something that could be a table, the section next to them has food supplies and another could-be-a-table. Just beyond that is a pile of items that form a rough bed. It’s their flat. It’s 221b. The dimensions are shockingly precise and now that John can see it, he wonders how he missed it before. There’s even a smiley face painted on the wall behind the couch.

“Mrs Hudson has a shelter next to us,” Sherlock says happily. “Just as it should be. And there’s even talk of tea being available soon.”

John grins at him. “That’s fantastic. This is fantastic. You are fantastic.”

“That’s not all, John,” Sherlock says, rubbing his hands together. “Oh no, people are still committing murders! Interesting ones!”

“That’s...” John is at a loss for how to respond to this. Thankfully Lestrade steps in.

“We’re re-forming a law-enforcement unit,” Lestrade says. “The more people are settling in and finding they don’t need to devote every minute of the day to staying alive, the more people are turning to crime.”

“Isn’t it wonderful, John?” Sherlock asks, eyes shining. John steps over to Sherlock and gives him an indulgent kiss. 

“If you say so.”

“Other aspects of civilised life are being formed,” Mycroft says. “We’re hoping to expand our ability to communicate between the pockets of survivors, find out how the rest of the world is faring. There are already rudimentary hospitals as you are aware, but we also want to start up schools for children and a better system for organising workers.”

“And I imagine you’re occupying a minor position in all of this?” John asks. Mycroft smiles thinly.

“Indeed.”

John looks around at their shelter again, taking in the little details he missed the first time, the experiment that has been started in the kitchen, the piles of papers and books Sherlock has rescued from god knows where. There’s even a mug on a rock to the left of what was presumably meant to be John’s chair, the seat of which is painted with a rough union jack. 

“Obviously blogging’s out,” Sherlock says. “And paper is scarce. But people will be desperate for entertainment. I thought maybe you could tell people our stories in person.”

“So what you’re saying,” John says slowly. “Is that despite the world nearly ending, despite the fact that there’s no technology or economy or... or anything like that, and the whole city, possibly the whole world, is in ruins, what you’re telling me is that our lives are going to be exactly the same as they were before?”

“But with more sex and less tea,” Sherlock helpfully supplies. “Problem?”

“No,” John says. “Sounds perfect.”


End file.
